A/N: This scene is set during the movie's events, after Napoleon and Illya race back to the hotel to beat Victoria Vinciguerra and Illya switches off his listening device alongside a snide comment from Gaby. Just moments after that...
"So," Gaby crossed her arms, trying her best to appear irritated at the man in front of her, "Where were you tonight?"
"Getting information."
She waited for him to offer further details, but when he turned toward the bedroom and deposited his listening device and gun onto the bed, she concluded he hadn't planned to explain any further.
"I guess it didn't go well," she commented, watching him from behind as he removed his jacket and hung it over a nearby chair, almost as if to – well, to dry it off. It wasn't raining outside, yet now that she thought about it, his clothes looked damp. He looked weary and sore and tense.
"Illya?" she prompted when she still had no response.
He turned to her and stared for several seconds, eyes locked onto hers, as if he was considering a response. But nothing came.
She approached him slowly, surprised at the aching feeling in her heart at the thought of him in pain. When she was near enough, she reached out and placed the palm of her left hand against his chest. His eyes stayed on her, wary now.
"Why are your clothes wet?" She brought her hand to his chin and turned his face to the left, then to the right, look for signs of injury. "Are you hurt?"
"No," he responded immediately. Too quickly to be convincing. He took a step away from her and she dropped her hand.
"Where are you hurt? Do you want me to look at it?"
"I'm fine." He shrugged in an attempt to downplay the tension. "Things did not go according to plan. But we dealt with it."
"You and Solo."
Illya nodded, but the tension returned to his shoulders.
Gaby wandered back into the lounge area, taking a seat on the sofa and hoping he would follow her there. She was pleased when he did. And when he took a seat on the same sofa, rather than the one adjacent. He could have gone to the bathroom to change and then gone straight to bed. But he didn't.
She twisted on the couch, leaning back against its arm with her feet up on the cushions. "Is this normal for you?" she asked, somewhat out of the blue.
He turned his body toward her and looked at her quizzically. "What, exactly?"
"I worried about you tonight."
"Worried?"
She nodded, saddened by the look of surprise in his eyes. "Well, you left very suddenly. What if something happened to you?"
"I would have thought you would be relieved if I never came back," he responded, a slight smile and a chuckle conveying the humour in his statement.
She kicked his leg lightly with her bare foot and, for some reason, let it rest there on his thigh. She had been worried about him tonight. More so than she would have thought. The relief she'd felt when he'd come charging back into the room had almost been enough to persuade her to back out of her plan to betray him the next day. Almost.
"Do you care about me?" she dared to ask.
His back straightened and his head snapped up in her direction, the question shocking him about as much as it had her. "What do you mean?"
"Would you care if something happened to me? Would you worry?"
He looked down at her foot on his lap, then back up at her face. "Yes," he responded simply. "I would."
"Good," she grinned. "So I am not the only one going soft."
He breathed a slight laugh, surprisingly unoffended by her description of him as soft. Then his face returned to its normal seriousness, with just a hint of something else in his expression. "This is not normal for me, Gaby."
"What? Coming home all battered and bruised?"
"No," he shook his head with a wry smile. "That part is more normal that I would care to admit."
"Then what?"
"This." He waved his hand between them. "Having someone there when I get home."
That statement made her smile a little. Oddly, she liked the thought of him coming home to her. Even if 'home' was a hotel room and this whole relationship was merely a ruse. "You usually work alone?"
Illya nodded. "Even when I don't, I usually don't have any," he hesitated, averting his eyes, "attachment."
Gaby drew her legs back and tucked them underneath her, now resting on her knees, a little bit closer to him. "Attachment? As in a fake fiancée?"
He looked back at her again and she could have sworn his eyes darted briefly to her lips before settling on her eyes. And then he stood and took several steps in the other direction.
She stood too and followed him, not allowing him the distance he was obviously trying to put between them. "Illya, what happened tonight?" Gaby knew she shouldn't be pushing this. To ask him to let her in would be asking him to trust her. And she knew that he shouldn't. It wasn't fair for her to push, yet she really wanted to.
He didn't respond. Didn't even turn around.
"Illya!" She took another step toward him and, with both hands, shoved him in the back. That caused him to turn, hitting her with a familiar glare. She shoved him again, her hands ramming into his chest. He took a step back.
"What are you doing?"
She lifted her right hand. "Making you angry." The last word was said with a grunt as her fist hit the muscle just below his shoulder.
He rolled his eyes, which irritated her even further. "Not good idea," he answered, catching her left wrist in his hand to block her next blow. His grip was firm, but he wasn't fast enough to stop her right hand from flying into his belly. This one caused him to flinch, even double over slightly with a grunt.
So he was hurt.
Gaby fought the urge to apologise.
"But it's working," he added, gripping her other forearm before she got the chance to deal another blow.
"Good." She pushed against him, but his hold was too firm. "Be angry. Be something. Something other than silent."
"Trust me," he said, leaning in closer to her, grip still tight around both her arms, "You would prefer the silence."
"You're so frustrating." She shot him with her best glare. She'd heard about Illya's anger issues. His episodes. She wasn't particularly keen to witness one, but she did want a fight. Gaby had been raised a fighter. She wanted him to yell or to punch something, as long as it wasn't her. All this pent up emotion was too much. The brooding silence, the passive aggressive jealousy, the drawn out chess matches. She wasn't used to dealing with tension this way, and she had a feeling they were both experiencing a new kind of tension. The kind that had the potential to get them both hurt.
Gaby stared up at him, feeling the irritation drain from her expression. He'd admitted he was angry, yet there was no explosion of unharnessed furore. His anger seemed more vulnerable than that. Something in his eyes that made her feel incredibly...sad. Like all of a sudden she wanted to protect him.
Ridiculous.
His grip loosened slightly, but he didn't let her go. And she didn't pull away. In fact, if she wasn't mistaken, he'd moved even closer. His hands slid to her wrists, and then across her hands, curling her fingers into his. She could feel his breath on her skin. He slid his hands past hers and she let hers fall to her side. Neither moved. More silence.
"I made mistake," he said, voice low and gruff. "Almost drowned."
Gaby could feel her heart pounding, and she wasn't quite sure if it was the result of his closeness or his unexpected revelation. "And this?" she questioned, placing a hand on his belly where her punch had caused him pain earlier.
"Another mistake," he admitted with a tilt of his head. "Landed badly."
"Well, I'm glad you're okay." She allowed herself a small smile, somehow unwilling to remove her hand from his torso, or step outside of this dangerously close proximity with him. She wouldn't press him any further. For Illya to admit he'd made a mistake and that he'd been close to death was already much more than she had expected from him.
"Will you be okay?" He asked, "Tomorrow, I mean."
She didn't know the answer to that, if she was being honest. Tomorrow was a whole lot more complicated than Illya realised. "I'm sure I will be," she lied. She then took a step back, dropping her hand to her side, with a small grin on her lips in an attempt to lighten the air. "Especially now I know you care what happens to me."
He responded with a laugh. "Let's keep that conversation to ourselves. You'll ruin my reputation."
"We can't have that."
"Remind me," he started as he headed in the direction of the wardrobe, "to teach you how to fight, when this is all over."
Gaby scoffed in his direction as he pulled a fresh set of clothes, presumably pyjamas, from a drawer. "That won't be necessary."
"Based on that little display back there, I would disagree." He grinned as he turned back to her.
"I didn't want to hurt you." An obvious excuse. Even if she had wanted to hurt him, she doubted she could. In truth, his offer appealed to her. Putting aside the fact it would force him to spend time with her, it meant that if she was to continue doing whatever it was she was doing, being a British spy, or anything else really, she would be able to hold her own. Wouldn't need a large Russian spy to protect her, or an American, or anybody, for that matter. "If neither of us die tomorrow-"
"Was that supposed to be funny?"
"-then I will let you train me," she finished, brushing past his disapproval of her dark humour. It was a good thought. She was pretty sure he would be recanting his offer after tomorrow's events. But it was a nice thought.
"Deal."
Illya disappeared into the bathroom, presumably to change, and Gaby returned to her bed. She didn't want to sleep and, honestly, doubted she would be able to. A large part of her wanted to stay awake talking to Illya, pretending that tomorrow was going to go exactly as he planned. But that wasn't fair on him. On either of them, really.
So she lay back into her pillow, steeling herself against what was to come.
Illya returned from the bathroom, flicked the light off and got into his own bed. "Sleep well, Gaby."
She felt herself smile at the warmth in his voice. Memorised it on the likely chance she'd never hear it again. "Goodnight."